Nothing Short of Dying: A Clyde Barr Novel

By Erik Storey

In the tradition of Lee Child’s Jack Reacher novels and featuring a lethal, ex-mercenary drifter who is most comfortable surviving in the wilderness and who puts his expertise to work racing against the clock to save his sister from a murderous meth kingpin, this “relentless thrill ride hurtles the reader into dark and interesting places” (Robert Ferrigno, New York Times bestselling author).

Sixteen years. That’s how long Clyde Barr has been away from Colorado’s thick forests, alpine deserts, and craggy peaks, running from a past filled with haunting memories. But now he’s back, having roamed across three continents as a hunter, adventurer, soldier of fortune, and, most recently, unjustly imprisoned convict. And once again, his past is reaching out to claim him.

By the light of a flickering campfire, Clyde receives a frantic phone call from his sister Jen. No sooner has she pleaded with him to come rescue her that the line goes dead. Clyde doesn’t know how much time he has, or where Jen is located, or why she needs rescuing. All he knows is that nothing short of dying will stop him from saving her.

Joining Clyde in his against-all-odds quest is a young woman named Allie whose motivations for running this gauntlet are fascinatingly complex. As the duo races against the clock, it’s Allie who gets Clyde to see what he has become and what he can still be.

Vivid with the hues and scents of Colorado’s backcountry, Nothing Short of Dying is, above all, “nothing short of brilliant. It grabs you from page one and simply doesn’t let go” (Jeffery Deaver, author of The Bone Collector).

• Language: English
• Publisher: Scribner
• Release date: Aug 16, 2016
• ISBN: 9781501124174

Erik Storey

Erik Storey is a former ranch hand, wilderness guide, dogsled musher, and hunter. He spent his childhood summers growing up on his great-grandfather’s homestead or in a remote cabin in Colorado’s Flat Tops wilderness. He has earned a number of sharpshooter and marksman qualifications. He is the author of three Clyde Barr novels, Nothing Short of Dying, A Promise to Kill, and the forthcoming Leave No One Alive. He and his family live in Grand Junction, Colorado.

Book preview

CHAPTER ONE

It started with a phone call in the Utah wilderness, about a week after I’d been released from prison.

I’d been enjoying one of those perfect spring mornings in the mountains. Baby-blue skies, soft breeze out of the northwest, sweet sage dripping with dew, and wildlife that practically ran from the trail into the frying pan. A great morning, I thought, on the way to many more like it in the Yukon, where I planned to live in the peace and cold.

I’d spent the morning tracking and then shooting a young mule deer buck. He led me through creeks swollen with muddy runoff, across hillsides so slick with fallen aspen leaves that I took a few ungraceful dives, and into a meadow of young lupine, where I pulled the trigger on my big African rifle as he turned broadside with his nostrils flaring.

The rest of the day was spent cutting the buck into steaks for dinner and strips to be smoked and air dried for later use. That night I built a small campfire out of wrist-size branches of juniper and sat staring at the flames as I fidgeted with the little hunk of plastic and wires I’d bought to contact my sisters as I passed through.

I’d hoped for a storybook homecoming—me calling them and telling them I was home and them suggesting I come over straightaway so they could cook for me. In my daydreams we’d have a merry old time catching up and talking like the family we used to be. In reality Deb didn’t answer and Angie told me I could go to hell. Jen wasn’t in any phone book, so I didn’t call her. Odds were good that if I did, she’d tell me something similar, so I put the phone away and set about cooking the steak.

I was sitting in a camp chair, listening to the crickets and the night wind, and had just finished rubbing salt and pepper into the meat, when the damned plastic contraption started chirping in my pocket. The sound was like an Atari video game, and I couldn’t push buttons fast enough to make it stop.

This is Barr, I said.

Clyde. It was Jen, her voice barely a whisper. I need you to come get me.

I looked up at the night sky, pulling on my beard. As happy as I was to hear her voice, the tone scared the hell out of me and lured me back to a time of fear. It was the same tone and pleading I’d heard as a child on the bad nights. The nights that Mom and Dad—or Mom and some new guy—were fighting, or when one of those guys, drunk and out of control, chose to hurt us.

Back then Jen would often crawl into my room and wake me with a trembling whisper. Together, we’d push the dresser against the door, huddle in a corner, and ride out the storm.

Where are you?

"Clyde, you need to hurry. He’s going to kill me. After I help him, I’m dead."

Who’s going to kill you? Help who with what? I had absolutely no idea what she was talking about or where she was.

Jesus, Clyde. Even though she whispered, I could hear her panic. "After I help him get inside a week from now, I’m no use to him. Please, please get me the hell out of here. You owe me."

She was right about the obligation. Okay. Tell me where you are.

"Promise me. Promise you’ll come get me."

This part was important, and she knew it. If I gave my word, nothing short of dying would stop me. It hadn’t yet. I stood and watched the constellations disappear, blanketed by invisible clouds. I promise, I said. Now, where the hell are you?

Suddenly there was a muffled shout and what sounded like a crash. I heard a male voice, then silence.

Jen?

There was no reply. I looked at the phone’s screen. The call-time numbers were still running. Jen? I said, louder.

Nothing.

There was a faint click and the line went dead. I flipped the phone shut and shoved it in my pocket.

As the night wind stirred the trees, I pulled a soft pack of straights from my flannel shirt pocket and shook out one of the last cigarettes. After touching it to a glowing ember from the fire, I stood in the darkness next to a sweet-smelling serviceberry bush.

One of my resolutions had been to quit smoking when I went into the backcountry. It was reassuring knowing there’s no better counter to the bad habit than fresh air and open spaces. But this new development put my vow on hold.

As reluctant as I was to delay my journey north, I’d made a promise. And this time it was to my sister—not some villager or desperate campesino in one of the many jungles I’d hacked my way through. My own flesh and blood—whatever the hell that meant.

I limped back to the fire and tossed the butt into the flames. From the valley came the lonely cry of coyotes. The wind rustled up the smells of melting snow and slowly caressed the pines as I looked back up at the stars and wondered what Jen had done this time.

Like me, and unlike our straitlaced sisters, she’d always been a troublemaker. She had a knack for finding the wrong people, the wrong times, and the wrong places. When we were young it had been us against the world. But then I left—left her to fend for herself, because I’d been selfish.

Now I had a chance to make up for it. First though, I needed a direction. A track I could follow. I called Angie again.

No answer, so I called Deb.

I got another one of those mechanical voices telling me to leave a message, so I did. I wasn’t sure Deb would call back, so I went ahead and started breaking camp. The tent came down in the same amount of time it takes most people to strip their beds. It and my sleeping bag went in my big bag, a beat-up ruck I’d hauled halfway around the world.

I limped over and shoveled dirt on the fire. As the last few embers suffocated under the soil, I silently said good-bye to the oak brush, aspen, and pines that had been my home this last week. I tipped my hat to Mount Lena, who’d let me sleep on her for the last couple of days. It was the closest I’d been to a woman in three years.

The phone rang as I began climbing into the truck. I stepped back out into the cold mountain air and pushed buttons until the ringing stopped.

Barr, I said.

This is Nick.

I didn’t know any Nicks.

Deb’s husband.

Oh, I said.

Stop calling. She doesn’t want to talk to you. Ever. Got it?

I nodded, watched the moon start to peek over the ragged horizon. Nick went on to tell me that I was a worthless bastard who’d abandoned his family. When his rant was over, I informed him what Jen had said. He told me that she was just as bad as I was and that he couldn’t care less what happened to her. I eventually prodded him into telling me that he’d seen her in Clifton with her lowlife friends and that she was using drugs again.

Okay, well, thanks for— He broke off the call before I could finish.

I got back in the truck, threw the phone on the cracked dash, then turned the key in the ignition. Nothing. I got back out, kicked the door, kicked the side panels, then slammed a fist on the hood. Satisfied with my mechanic skills, I got back behind the wheel and tried the ignition again. The dilapidated engine turned over, started, and made unhealthy grinding noises as I headed south.

I drove off the mountain, under a brilliant moon, back toward the country I thought I’d left for good. I smacked my hands against the steering wheel and felt both it and the truck wobble. The grimy wheel was connected by an iffy steering rod to a junk pickup that I’d bought for two hundred bucks from the coyote who’d driven me across the border. Listening to the creaks and moans of the aging steel, I wondered if either of us would survive the trip.

My eyes burned and the road blurred in front of me. I wanted to stop and crawl into my sleeping bag but decided on a drink instead. I grabbed the paper bag that sat on the passenger seat, pulled the bottle out, put it between my legs, and then took a big, long pull.

After the liquor hit, driving away from my Yukon dreams and back toward the place I’d grown up didn’t feel so bad. But deep down I knew I was kidding myself. The truth was, Jen’s call had surfaced memories that I’d buried under many years and thousands of miles. With one phone call, she’d made me remember what I wanted to forget.

When our dad left, and our mom died, I did something stupid that almost got me killed. Jen did something worse that saved my life. If anyone ever found out what we’d done, we’d both be serving life sentences. Jen’s keeping quiet kept me free. Because of that, and of what we’d endured together, I’d do whatever she asked.

CHAPTER TWO

I awoke in a tangle of sweaty sheets. The screams of women and children and the popping of Kalashnikovs faded slowly back into the realm of dreams as the morning light filtered in through the slightly drawn curtains. Though I’d come to consciousness coiled for action, I relaxed when I spotted a cheap television perched on a nearby entertainment stand.

It was the TV that told me what country I’d woken up in.

The soft bed beneath me was another tip-off. I wasn’t surrounded by snoring people wrapped in dirty blankets and crowding all of the available floor space. And there were no chickens or goats. I scratched my flat naked belly, felt the reassuring cold steel of the rifle by my side, and shook my head, amazed by what the developed world takes for granted.

Water heaters, for instance. I loved water heaters. Their existence meant I could take a gloriously long shower without any work. I was absolutely filthy. A week on the mountain swirled around my feet and down the drain in a black slurry. After toweling off, I wiped condensation from the bathroom mirror and used my scissors to trim back my unruly hair and beard. The sight of gray tufts mixed with black should have been depressing, but I had a slightly different thought—how much I’d changed in the years I’d been away. I was staring at a naked ape with wide straight shoulders, hard sinewy limbs, and hairy tanned skin. I actually looked too lean. If I didn’t get some calories in soon, I’d drop to under two hundred pounds for the first time since high school.

After pulling on a pair of jeans and a denim shirt, I sat down and drew a little notebook out of my pack. I bit the inside of my cheek and flipped through the pages, staring at the phone numbers written inside. Who do I call first?

I decided to call Juan. He was my only real friend from Riverside High. While other kids focused on geometry and biology, Juan taught me how to steal cars and pick locks. In return I taught him how to shoot and brawl. I hoped he still had his family connections.

This is Barr, I said when Juan picked up on the third ring.

Barr? There was a brief silence, then hushed Spanish. "Seriously?"

Yeah. I need some help.

Well, I’m good, thanks for asking.

Sorry, I said. How you been?

"Good, man. It’s been a lot of years. Where have you—"

I’ll fill you in later. Right now I need info.

What kind? Juan asked warily.

"Jen’s in trouble—again. Maybe mixed up with somebody very dangerous."

I’m not sure how much help I can be, now that we’re outside of it.

We?

Me and Maria.

I didn’t say anything for several moments, tried to ignore the punch to the gut.

Oh, man . . . you didn’t know? Juan said.

You still live in the same place? I asked.

Yeah, but, Clyde . . .

I’ll be there in thirty, I said, and hung up.

•  •  •

TWENTY MINUTES AND A STOP for smokes later, I pulled into Riverside, Colorado, and stopped in the public park. The cottonwoods were finally beginning to leaf out and the grass was short and green. On the far side of the park, protecting the town from the river, was the levee where kids played and rode their bikes on the crest. From behind it wafted the sweet, earthy scent of the mighty Colorado.

The park nearly overflowed with very large families in the middle of various get-togethers, birthday parties, and picnics. I got out, leaned on the hood of my truck, and lit a fresh cigarette. Most of the folks were Hispanic, happy, and boisterous. I could have been standing in a village in any of the Latin countries I’d wandered through, but I wasn’t. I was home, staring at the central gazebo that had changed my life. Memories of this place came flooding back, as if the levee had suddenly given way.

Down the street, Juan’s house sat next door to the one Maria had grown up in—Maria, the girl I’d dated all through high school, the one who’d taken my virginity with relish and let loose feelings I’d never had before.

Sixteen years ago, I’d sat with Maria under that gazebo, my arms wrapped tight around her thin waist, and told her I was leaving. She didn’t cry, just looked into my eyes and nodded. It was inevitable, she’d told me. She said I needed to escape, run away.

Is that what I’d been doing all this time? Running away? I crushed out my cigarette, got in the truck, and drove to Juan’s.

•  •  •

I WAS SITTING IN HIS backyard, in a flimsy white plastic chair, my chukkas propped up on a cooler, drinking a Bud Light, and trying to pretend I wasn’t uncomfortable as hell.

So, I can try to help, but like I said, we’re out of the life now, Juan said.

I took a sip of beer. "About this we—"

Sorry you didn’t know. We would have invited you, but no one knew where you were.

I looked at the ground.

Really, he said. "You can’t be that mad, right? I mean, you’ve been gone for almost . . . When did you leave?"

A year after high school, I said.

Juan shook his head. Sixteen years, then. So, you gonna hit me or just drink all my beer?

"You happy? Is she happy?" I asked.

Of course, man. Especially now. Two little ones running around, her finally finishing nursing school. I just got a raise at the shop.

Then that’s all that matters. I reached into the cooler for another beer, popped the tab on another can of Bud. I thought you guys only drank Coronas?

That horse piss? You probably assume we eat burritos three times a day, too.

"You mean you don’t?" I said.

Juan laughed. Well, that’s what we’re having tonight.

Maria came out then carrying paper plates loaded with food that smelled of cumin and pepper. Flies flitted around the burritos. I couldn’t meet her gaze, stared at the top of my beer can instead. She and Juan exchanged love sonnets in a fast Spanglish that I had a hard time following. I told her thanks, but she ignored me and walked back inside. My eyes followed her soft retreat, imagining a past that could have been. I took one bite, then finished the burrito in three more.

I’ll call my cousins, Juan said. My brothers, too. They still got a hand in all that. See what they can find out.

I nodded, not really paying attention. The house, the kids, the jobs. They were living the American dream, one I could have had if I’d stayed.

So I’ll call you, Juan said.

Sure, I said, draining the dregs of my beer.

When I finished, I crushed the can, tossed it into a steel drum set out for that purpose, and stood. Thanks, man. And, uh . . . tell Maria she’s beautiful, okay?

CHAPTER THREE

The sun finally gave up for the day as I cruised down the interstate toward Clifton. In the rearview mirror I could see the tired old ball of atoms settle down in its bed of rocks and sand, pulling its pink-and-red blankets over its head, then finally turning off the light. It would be a while until the moon arrived to take its place. Both windows were down and I could feel the temperature drop immediately, as it always does in the desert. In the cool air I smelled the faint river scents start to push away the god-awful gasoline smog that had been plaguing my nose all day.

The lights of the city were glowing now, overpowering the stars and making the world look upside down. The truck rattled and squeaked off I-70, and together we stopped at the first motel we came to. It was one of those leftovers from an era when car travel was exciting. It even had one of those names: Travel Lodge. All dark brown wood with a small faded sign that showed they had all the modern conveniences, like air-conditioning and color TVs. My kind of place.

Juan called after I’d checked in and unloaded my bags.

I asked around, he said. Found out some things. They reminded me why I decided to get out of this shit. My oldest brother, Alejandro, remember him? He’s still running a crew in Clifton. Mostly sells pot and a little crank. He used to sell it out of a place on F and Susan called the Cellar. Know it? Anyway, about a year ago a new guy came to town, some white dude with a lot of muscle, and he ran Alejandro out.

What’s this got to do with Jen? I asked with a sinking feeling. Getting involved in stuff like this was the reason I’d wound up in prison.

This big honcho, he disappeared a week ago. And the last time he was spotted he was with Jen.

Oh, I said.

Yeah. And everyone is looking for him. He stopped the flow of good meth. Word is, he’s making something even better, but he’s cut off any trade in it until it’s done so that the ­tweakers will be jonesing real good when the new batch comes out.

What’s this honcho’s name?

Didn’t ask. I don’t want to know specifics, ’cause I’m out of the life, remember?

Yeah. So I should start looking at the Cellar?

That’s what Alejandro said. The big honcho is missing, but his little brother runs the place, slings crank out of there when he has supply. Alejandro suggests you try talking to the main bartender there, a pretty brunette named Allie Martin. Just be careful.

You know me, I said. Safety first.

"I do know you. That’s why I said to be careful. Don’t go stepping on rattlers, Barr. You might get bit."

Uh-huh.

One more thing, Juan said. Chopo got out a while back and he’s heading this way to help my brother. I know you guys did some business years ago. He might be willing to lend a hand.

I got it for now, Juan, thanks. And tell—

Yeah, yeah, I’ll tell her. Stay alive, man. He hung up.

•  •  •

A HALF HOUR LATER I paused at the front entrance to the Cellar and felt under my Carhartt jacket, first to my right and then to my left, for my six-inch Green River butcher knife and my compact .40 caliber. I walked in slowly, letting my eyes adjust to the gloom. The place smelled of piss and mildew and stale beer. There was something else, too: the acrid sweat of the strung out—a smell that reminded me of the little cantinas in Bolivia where people in the coca trade use booze to come down from the powder cloud that gets them through the long shifts. If broken souls had an odor, they’d smell like the Cellar.

A single bar on the right ran the entire length of the building: twelve bar stools, five occupied by men. And to the left of the bar was a group of tables, one of which propped up three people—two women and a guy—who looked like they were passed out. The bartender, a good-looking young woman with a ponytail, was yelling at a man whose elbows were propped on the bar. He stomped outside after the reaming, and I headed toward his abandoned seat.

The four men who remained on the stools glowered as I walked past and sat down. The bartender pretended to ignore me. After she waited the predetermined time it took to show the four men whose side she was on, she walked over and took my order. A Canadian whiskey with a cheap beer back. My version of a boilermaker.

The four men fidgeted, animated about something or other, eyes constantly searching, seeing and cringing at the spiders on the walls and the mothmen in the corners. All four tweakers were white, thin, and tall. And close to the same age. All wore baggy shirts and baggy pants, and their flat-brimmed ball caps were crooked. When they spoke it was clipped and fast and they used hand gestures that looked like bad karate. Occasionally they’d look my way, make a gesture, laugh, and sneer. One spit at my feet. I smiled, nodded, and held up my whiskey.

The three at the table must have been coming down from a long time on the moon, as the meth heads called the time they spent tweaked. Their heads were cradled on skinny folded arms and one, the guy, snored.

You Allie? I asked the bartender as she pulled a bottle down from the top shelf and wiped an inch of dust off it.

Maybe.

You know a girl named Jen Barr?

She smiled, a strange smirk that told me she knew a lot of things. After putting the bottle back on the shelf, she said, I might. You a cop?

I pulled up my coat sleeves, showing her scars and green ink. Do I look like a cop?

She laughed. Everyone has ink. Cops too.

Which I couldn’t argue. When I left, only sailors, bikers, and cons had tattoos. From what I’d seen since I’d returned to this country, everyone and their grandmothers had something scrawled on their skin.

I don’t care much for the law, I said. I’m just a brother looking for his sister Jen.

You should ask the owner, she said with that same strange smirk. He’s outside smoking, but he’ll be back soon. He might know her.

Care if I sit here and wait?

Be my guest.

So I sat and sipped and waited. Who owns this dive? I asked after I finished the whiskey.

Brent. Everyone here calls him Spike.

Spike? The name made me think of a cartoon bulldog.

Yeah. He got the name when he stopped smoking and started using the needle. She pantomimed someone sticking a syringe into a vein. It’s a stupid name. Fits him well.

Got it. She either believed that I wasn’t a cop or she hated her boss. Or both.

She walked over by the till, shook the empty tip jar, and glared at the four restless men next to me. Grabbing a rag, she started wiping down the bar and made her way back to me.

Brent’s not going to like someone coming into his place and asking questions, she said. It’s not the kind of place where you get answers.

I nodded, not showing any worry, but I was getting restless. This was taking too long. I thought I’d just ask a few questions, then hit the road with a direction. Hunting people was much more frustrating than hunting animals, because it involved talking, which I wasn’t very good at. I sipped my beer, resigned myself to a long night, and thought about all the dirty little dive bars I’d been in over the years.

Allie kept wiping, trying to push a puddle of liquor off the bar. I said, You do know her, though?

She folded her arms and stared at me with a look of defiance that told me she was done with annoying men for the day. On her the expression looked cute.

"Maybe you should ask him," she said, looking over my shoulder.

I turned and watched a short guy with fussed-over dusty-brown hair who I assumed was the owner come back into the bar like he’d forgotten something. He strode quickly across the room, quickening his pace further when he saw me. He wore green slacks and a brown T-shirt that was too tight. There were track marks on both of his Popeye arms. The gold Rolex on his wrist wobbled as he cracked his knuckles.

And who the holy hell are you? he asked, his voice high-pitched and angry.

You must be Spike, I said.

"You didn’t answer my question, asshole. This is pretty much a private club. No outsiders. You’re going to tell me who you are, and why you’re here, then you’re gonna get

Reviews for Nothing Short of Dying

[daftboy1 · Rating: 3 out of 5 stars]

This is a novel very much like a Jack Reacher story. Clyde Barr is just out of jail. He is looking for sister who has problems with drugs and local scumbags.He meets a girl called Allie he falls in love with her she gets killed by the baddies.He meets an old friend who is very dodgy who helps him. Lots of shooting blood and guts. Easy to read, nothing special book.

[tottman_1 · Rating: 4 out of 5 stars]

Clyde Barr is the latest action hero to arrive in Erik Storey’s debut novel, Nothing Short of Dying. Cut out of the same cloth as characters like Jack Reacher, Dewey Andreas and Pike Logan, the character Barr most reminds me of is The Executioner: Mack Bolan. Bolan was a one-man wrecking crew. A decorated Vietnam war vet who returns home to bury most of his family. When he discovers the mob is to blame, he becomes vengeance personified as he goes about dismantling them.Clyde Barr shares a lot of those traits. Ex-military, soldier of fortune and recent graduate of a Mexican prison. All he wants is to disappear into the mountains and live off the land. A desperate phone call from his youngest sister, whom he shared a childhood that was beyond brutal, pulls him back towards civilization and “nothing short of dying” will prevent him from keeping his promise to come for her.Storey does a good job of developing a character with a lot of rough edges and a believable amount of competency paired with a slightly excessive ability to absorb punishment. The action scenes are crisp, exciting and fast-paced. Barr is willing, if sometimes reluctant, to use people around him to assist in rescuing his sister. Most notable among these are Allie, the bartender he tries to help and ends up putting in harm’s way and Zeke, his former cellmate who is as amoral and ruthless as they come.Storey doesn’t sugarcoat the consequences and none of Barr’s plans comes off without a hitch. The book lacks some of the polish of stories from other thriller writers, particularly when it comes to dialogue, but it is a very strong debut. Storey convincingly paints the rugged Colorado landscape along with plenty of action and a strong, flawed protagonist who looks like he has more adventures in front of him. I suspect subsequent entries in this series will get even better and I’m looking forward to them. Recommended read.I listened to the audio version of this book narrated by Jeremy Bobb. Bobb does a good job with the narration capturing the excitement of the action along with the rough edges of the characters, particularly Barr and Zeke. The narration nicely complements the story.I was fortunate to receive an advance copy of this book for review.

[dabofdarkness · Rating: 5 out of 5 stars]

Clyde Barr wants a break from civilization and he finds it deep in the Yukon. Then one night he receives a desperate call from his sister Jen. She begs him to come rescue her. After a pause, he promises he will. Once back home in Colorado, Clyde starts digging up old contacts that can give him a lead on his sister. A variety of obstacles get in his way including drug dealers, gangs, the FBI, and a questionable comrade from his time in a Mexican prison.This was an excellent action thriller. Clyde Barr is a many-layered man. He’s spent 16 years away from the States, hunting, killing, and sometimes protecting in South America and Africa. Now he just wants to be away from it all, but that can’t be until he upholds his promise to Jen, a promise he wouldn’t have given lightly. As the story unfolds, we learn more about this fascinating character. He and Jen, the youngest of 4 children, share experiences and a secret from their teen years. Jen knows that if he gives his word then nothing short of dying will keep him from fulfilling it.Being of the Southwest myself, I really liked that the setting was Colorado. The author did a great job in capturing the empty expanse of some areas of the state, the spread-out cities, and the Hispanic influence in culture, food, and language. Clyde has been away from modern tech for some time and his remarks on changes, such as the legal pot stores, added touchstones for those familiar with the state.The ladies make up a good chunk of the side characters and they are written like real people. They don’t fall into the typical action flick stereotypes of love interest and/or damsel in distress. Yes, sometimes someone needs a hand up and Jen especially needs someone to rescue her, yet even Jen is doing what she can from her position to aid herself. Allie Martin, bar tender and drifter, has a solid back story and I like that she has skills that Clyde doesn’t, like she’s familiar with modern mechanics.Jen has gotten caught up in Lance Alvis’s business, which is currently heroin production and distribution. There’s big money in the business and Alvis isn’t a reckless idiot. He has layers of people between him and the street distribution. This makes it tough for Clyde to track him down. Also, it provides plenty of opportunity for brawling. Clyde has some fighting skills and most of his bouts are swiftly put to an end, leaving the drug pushers on the floor.Now I don’t want to make Clyde sound like a macho man. He’s capable, even deadly when he has to be, and masculine – no doubt about those three points. Yet he doesn’t toot his own horn or show off for the ladies. There are even a few times where he slips or makes a mistake and he’s the first to chuckle at himself or castigate himself, depending on the situation.Zeke was probably the most interesting minor character. He spent some time with Clyde in a tough situation and they were comrades of sort. However, Zeke lacks morals and Clyde sees him as dangerous because of this. Yet Zeke is good with horses. Another interesting character was Chapo, who is muscle for a local gang. He joins forces with Clyde briefly as they hunt down a lead on Alvis. Chapo has his own code and Clyde focuses on that instead of the right or wrong of the gang life.All around, it’s a very interesting action tale with plenty of layers to peel back as the story moves forward. I was never bored with it or rolling my eyes. I also appreciated the accuracy in description and use when it came to firearms. I very much look forward to what else Storey comes up with in his writing career.I received a free copy of this book from the publisher.The Narration: Jeremy Bobb did a very good job with Clyde Barr’s voice. It was practical and a little rough, just like the man himself. His female voices were believable. He also did a Hispanic accent here and there.